See you in the funny papers! Our issue with Ziggy

The Mosimans are dog people. We could care less if strangers, colleagues, or even other family members dislike us but if we encounter a canine that refuses to wag our way, we are crushed; questioning the very core of our existence. 

Our senior statesman, little Ziggy, has ruled my mother-in-love's house for years, delighting Linda and Chuck with his boundless energy, devotion, loyalty and love. 

In his spry years, the Zig-ster, more or less, graciously endured our visits. Sure, we pulled some attention away from him but he knew that it was only temporary. Soon enough, he would resume his rightful position as the center of Linda and Chuck's universe.

But now, in his golden years, Ziggy refuses to take a back-seat to ANYONE. 

In fact, I swear the little dog repressed a chuckle as Brad and I were stuffed, unceremoniously, into the back of the PT Cruiser to speed off to the vet for a weight check, culminating in a trip to the drive-thru for a pup-cup.  Chuck drove to a scenic park so that Ziggy could enjoy his front seat view with his treat, leaving Brad and me sweltering and hungry behind him.

Linda's delicious four-and-five-course meals were marvelous but deceptively dog-friendly. I watched as my father-in-law deconstructed my left-over Hawaiian pizza. "You weren't going to eat this, were you?" he asked, preparing pizza bones with which to tempt little Ziggy, lodged comfortably on Linda's

lap who was over-seeing the operation. Brad and I watched as our lovely beef roast was ripped apart to make tiny dog-sized sliders for Ziggy. I gasped when Ziggy shot me a wink as Linda grabbed the last chicken leg to tempt his unpredictable appetite.  Ziggy nibbled a refreshing square of watermelon as a palate cleanser while I scanned the kitchen for a clump of grapes, certain the Chuck and Linda would soon be feeding him, Cleopatra-style.

Poor Ziggy. My and Brad's visit really put a crimp in his style. He had to put up with us on his daily rides in the car. Brad had the audacity to stretch out on the couch, dis-lodging one of Ziggy's many snuggle spots. Forget the "Washington Slept Here" signs peppering historic homes and taverns throughout the East, Linda should label Ziggy's territory to avoid canine confusion and resentment when boundaries are accidentally breached.

Ziggy was NOT sad to see us go. 

I have never seen a dog enjoy a ride to the airport as much as this one.

Like I said...the Mosimans love their dogs.

Linda and Chuck dote on their little friend...seeing to his every need and enjoying every moment with him. The geriatric years are challenging for everyone as health concerns creep up...vision clouds, hearing wanes, limbs lack confidence. Every precious moment is celebrated...treasured...and stored away. How grateful we are for Chuck and Linda's sweet little dog...when it comes to providing love and joy...Ziggy is definitely in the driver's seat.

The cost of currency

Foreign currency fascinates me.  The unusual shapes and colors.  Even the texture.  The feel of the foreign currency in Mexico was particularly odd:  soft and fluffy. Not only that, it was bright blue.  Suspension of reality must be employed when one enters a resort environment.  My American money was eclipsed in value by towel cards.  These magical towel cards are distributed with great discretion:  one per person.  You carefully take your prescribed card to a happy little hut and exchange the little piece of plastic for a great big, bright blue, soft and fluffy towel.  You are entrusted to guard this fabric with your very life.  Should you fail in this mission, you will be unable to retrieve your card at the end of your visit, your name goes on a list, and you will be unable to leave the country with any amount of dignity.

Obviously, this established economic structure is a tad flimsy.  Everywhere you look, there is a sea of blue.  Your initial vigilance begins to relax and you find yourself wandering further and further from your towel.  Occasionally, you lose eye contact with your towel.  You then abandon your towel altogether like its a baby at a gas station.

Chuckie and I made the mile or so trek back to where we'd left our towels beneath the shade of a tropical umbrella next to the pool on our way to the spa.  We scooped up our towels and headed off down one of the seemingly endless paths of the resort. A stern voice stopped our steps and we turned to see a rather large man headed our way, gesturing madly.  "I think we should run," I whispered to Chuck from the side of my mouth.  But it was too late, my father-in-law faced this potential crisis head-on.  Interpreting the wild pointing, demonic, accusatory stare and barrage of German shouting, I believe that this nut thought that Chuck and I stole his towels.  Naturally, Chuck responded to this with some impressive gesturing of his own while I hugged my towel to my chest like it was a baby monkey and shouted, "My towel...my towel."  We all headed back to the scene of the crime where the German man's wife was keeping a stern eye on my waiting mother-in-law who too, was clutching a blue towel to her chest and insisting, "My towel...my towel."  The Mexican man from the happy little hut emerged and the great United Nations debate ensued.  It was the tower of Babel all over again.  Justice finally prevailed and the good guys were sent off down the happy trail with their soft and fluffy blue towels.

Several hours later, Brad shed an illuminating light on the situation.  The true culprit in the towel caper was our Aunt Pat.  Fearful of leaving our towels unattended, she'd gathered them up and stored them in her room.  The Germans then arrived, "invading" our territory, and planted their blue flags.  Oblivious, Chuck and I returned and took "our" towels.  Wait.  What?  I wasn't the good guy?  I was guilty of petty larceny on foreign soil?  Brad returned the stolen merchandise to the Germans accompanied by another enthusiastic round of gesturing.  I'm pretty sure my husband made humorous wide circular motions with his pointer finger towards the side of his head while everyone laughed.  Well...I certainly wasn't laughing.  What sort of warped resort was this that assigned such an unrealistic value on towels so that people would be willing to battle, conceivably to the death, to protect them?  It was with a great deal of relief that I exchanged my towel for the plastic card and then returned the plastic card to the hotel front desk to be granted clearance to leave this awful, awful place.  I could return to normalcy, my home where the almighty dollar rules and no one ever argues about it.

On our way...

Months of Chuck's carefully calculated planning resulted in my family rising at 3 am on a Thursday to vanish momentarily from our lives of finals preparations, teaching lessons, service calls, and sandwich prep to  make a break for the border.  My father-in-law had been email bombarding me for months with helpful travel tips ("Don't talk to ANYBODY.") as we initiated the necessary steps enabling us to temporarily walk away from our mundane, white bread and orange juice lives to browse the exotically-overflowing and abundant buffet of Mexico. As usual, I was trapped next to a blabbermouth on the flight..."Excuse me, sir? I'm trying to read."  "Get over yourself, Amy," Brad snapped, "you can talk to me for at least five minutes.  Then you can resume ignoring me for the duration of the flight." Worried about his exaggerated diagnosis  of "deep-vein thrombosis" to explain the mild stiffness of my legs while traveling,  Brad then proceeded to badger me to engage in ridiculous exercises.  "Stretch out your leg," he demanded, not caring that I was perfectly content to remain contorted into my teeny-tiny little assigned airplane area until I would reach the most amazing travel destination EVER:  Newark! I painfully limped off the plane to a nirvana of food court fabulousness.  After hours of agonizing inner turmoil, I settled on a caprese sandwich.  A daring choice as I'm not what you would technically call a "sandwich girl" (paninis don't count) but I was feeling rather adventurous.  With reckless abandon, I took a bite and immediately realized that my life would be forever changed by this moment.  Fresh red ripe tomato buttressed by thick, creamy mozzarella, snuggled in a chewy Italian roll upon which a garlic-basil olive oil rain would gently fall.  What do you mean...it's time to board the next plane? I would NOT leave Newark! In lieu of calling security, Brad coaxed me on board by waving a warmed chocolate-chip croissant ahead of me until I was securely buckled into my seat.  I sighed, forehead pressed against my teeny-tiny, bacteria-ridden airplane window...watching my beloved city grow smaller.  Adios, Newark.  J'taime.